It's My Turn to Believe
by storylover18
Summary: When Sherlock turns up post-Reichenbach, John is as first overjoyed but then he becomes angry with Sherlock. How could his best friend do something be so cruel? As he tries to comes to terms, Sherlock falls ill. Only John is too pre-occupied to notice - will he come around in time to help his friend? For wetrustno1 - no slash, just friendship. Hope you enjoy - reviews appreciated!
1. Two Long Weeks

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello everyone! I must be having a good week or something because this is the _second_ Sherlock story I have published in _two _days. And to make it better, this will be multi-chapter _and_ it's the one requested by wetrustno1. This is the request they sent me: **

**What if, after Sherlock's return (*gasp* post fall angst?! YES!) John's too busy piecing together his own life to notice Sherlock's quickly deteriorating physical state?**

**Anyways, here it is for you! I hope chapter one doesn't disappoint. **

It had been two weeks. Two long, miserable weeks since he had first seen his best friend alive.

Once John had worked through the overjoyed phase of knowing his best friend was alive, he became angry. Not 'you ruined my date' angry, but the 'why would you ever tell me you were a fake, make me watch you commit suicide, and _then_ decide to come back a month and a half later' angry. In fact, those were some of the very words he had yelled at a very static Sherlock, who had been sitting in the very middle of their sofa while John paced the floor.

"How could you go for so long without telling me you were alive?" John continued that rainy Saturday. "Do I mean nothing to you?"

"Of course you mean something. I did what you asked – I stopped being dead."

It took John a moment to realize what Sherlock was talking about but once he clued in, his anger rose a notch.

"You were in the cemetery that day when I said that? Bloody hell, Sherlock! It couldn't have hurt you to step out of the shadows for just a minute and let me know you were okay?"

"It had to remain secret."

"To everyone but Molly, right? How could you ask her to do something like that for you? It's a miracle the woman isn't in a psych ward right now!"

"I needed her help, John."

"And I suppose I'm not good enough to rely on for help. No, I was just the one who was there when you almost got yourself killed by taking that stupid pill, or when you were convinced you had seen some deadly hound, not to mention that I bailed you out of jail!"

"Do you honestly think that if I thought you could have you help me, I'd have asked Molly? Moriarty was threatening to kill you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. But not Molly."

"Since when has that stopped me? People are always trying to kill me because of you. From day one it's been," John used air quotes. " 'Could be dangerous' but look, I'm still here. I was there in the pool, explosives strapped to my chest. I was there when you threw us in front of a bus. I've always been there for you, Sherlock, even when it was dangerous."

Sherlock sighed.

"I've read the blog and I know you believed me. You are the only one who did."

"What does that matter?" John exclaimed. "You didn't have the decency to even tell me on the phone you were going to be faking your own death. You didn't think I could play the part?"

"No one should have to play that part."

"Well, I just spent the last month and a half doing it, Sherlock. Only I didn't know the part was cast to me!"

"I thought it would be easier on everyone this way."

"How can you say that? I could have helped you."

"You did help me, John. I needed people to be convinced that my death was real and your heartfelt story convinced them."

"So that's all I'm good for then, a good heartfelt story to convince the masses? And what about now?" John asked. "Am I just supposed to forgive you for what you've done and move on, go back to solving crimes and blogging about it?"

"Yes." Sherlock's answer seemed so simple and John looked – and felt – taken aback.

"I don't know if I can." John finally said and he let out a big sigh. "Look, Sherlock, I'm glad that you're alive and that you're okay. I really am. But I'm angry."

"Obviously."

"I'm angry with you and I don't know if I'll ever forgive you for this."

"Take all the time you need, John. You believed in me when no one else did. Now it's my turn to believe in you."

"Where will you be staying?"

"Here. I've already fixed it with Mrs. Hudson."

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. I'm going out. Don't wait up."

With that, John grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, letting the door slam shut behind him.

* * *

It had been two weeks since that awful day. Two long, miserable weeks since he had first seen his best friend alive.

John had fought many internal battles since then. He wanted to forgive Sherlock and go back to the comfortable life they had had at 221B Baker Street but he just couldn't. Not yet, anyway.

As John approached the door to their flat, he looked up at the dreary sky. It seemed to sympathize with him, providing him with so many rainy days that seemed to fit his mood perfectly. He shoved the door open and closed it firmly, rubbing his hands together to warm them. John went upstairs and listened, as he now normally did. He had decided the night of their argument that he was not going to let Sherlock's presence interrupt his daily life, although he had to admit he had become accustomed to arranging his schedule around where Sherlock wasn't and often listened to see if Sherlock was in the flat. Though the few times they had crossed paths had led to strained and somewhat awkward conversations, it seemed to be for the best. Hearing silence, John went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle, making himself a nice cup of tea. He sat down with the evening _Times_ and began paging through them.

* * *

Sherlock was indeed home that rainy afternoon and he had been listening for John to return from his errands. The truth was Sherlock hadn't even left his bedroom, much less the flat, that day. He had grown accustomed to the people staring at him as he walked down the streets alone but that was not what had kept him shut in today. Rather, it was an aching body and a pounding head that kept him in bed. Ordinarily, Sherlock dismissed any bodily discomfort with a trick of his mind – he had trained himself to be able to convince his body that pain was just a figment of imagination – and carry on. However, things felt different now, knowing that John was angry with him and in the room upstairs. It was oddly unsettling for Sherlock and he wished John would come around. However, he knew that if their friendship was going to be reconciled, it had to be on John's initiative. So it had made perfect sense for Sherlock, upon waking up to the pounding headache, to just stay in bed. There was no pressing case – he hadn't had a case in ages – and he didn't have anything better to do. Sherlock slept for most of the morning and woke up at lunch time feeling worse than before. His body had decided to wage war and he was so incredibly achy that lying still felt like there were a thousand needles pressing into his back. It was at the point where Sherlock was considering taking paracetamol, although he didn't even know where to find the drug in the flat so he had simply been lying in bed, listening for John to come home.

He heard John come in and pause, trying to gage Sherlock's whereabouts, before making himself a cup of tea and sitting down with the paper. He was undoubtedly sitting on the sofa, cushion closest to the window, with the paper spread open on the coffee table. John would have his knees spread apart and elbows resting on them as leaned over to read the small print. Despite having waited all day for John's return, Sherlock did not want to speak with him about something as simple as paracetamol. Another cold shoulder response would only make him feel worse. However, Sherlock decided as his pain intensified slightly, not getting some medicine was not an option and Sherlock thought about it.

Paracetamol … a common pain-killer … found in a medicine cabinet. Medicine chests were often in the bathroom (usually behind a mirror or under a sink) or the kitchen (often the small, oddly shaped cupboard that every kitchen seemed to come equipped with). Their bathroom did not have a mirror that opened, but there was room under the sink. Or was it in the kitchen? No, it wouldn't be in the kitchen. John was a medical man, meaning he wouldn't keep a first-aid kit in the kitchen. He would want access to clean towels and a sink that wasn't contaminated with food particles. So the paracetamol was in the bathroom, under the cabinet.

Satisfied, Sherlock forced his aching body out of bed and staggered to the door. As quietly as possible, he opened the door. He could see John sitting on the couch, knees on elbows, reading the paper but he didn't move when Sherlock's door opened – either because he didn't notice or he did and chose to ignore it. Sherlock, keeping his eyes trained on the ground, went into the bathroom. He knelt by the sink and looked under it. There, on the small shelf, next to the rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, was a bottle of paracetamol. Sherlock opened the child-proof cap and took two, swallowing them dry. He closed the cabinet and retreated back to his bed, feeling uncharacteristically tired.

**I'm actually really pleased with how this turned out. I was quite nervous to try a post-Reichenbach but I think I might actually like this. The only problem I can't seem to get around is that I doubt John would've stayed in the flat all that time without Sherlock (he says he can't go back at the moment in the episode but I don't know where else he would end up permanently, if that makes sense.) Anyways. Feedback is always welcomed with a smile =) **


	2. Taking Care

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**OH. MY. WORD. I had 24 e-mails this morning for this story and they've been coming all day. I have two words to say to you: THANK YOU! Your support and encouragement means so much to me, which is why I've posted chapter two so quickly. I hope you enjoy it – there's absolutely no dialogue so I hope it's not too dismal. I tried to make it as easy to read as possible – it's hard not to be repetitive when writing about flu (in case you're squeamish, there's nothing of graphic detail!) Anyways. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you did the first =) **

Once the paracetamol set in, Sherlock had not trouble falling asleep. His sleep carried him into worlds of make-believe; days were Moriarty wasn't dead and places Richard Brook's face was etched into walls. Sherlock woke up with a start after one particularly frightening dream that had ended with Moriarty nose-to-nose with Sherlock, an evil smile on his face.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he could feel his heart pounding. Outside, rain was falling rhythmically and the soothing pitter-patter helped calm Sherlock, who took a few deep breaths. Truly frightened by the nightmare, Sherlock leaned over and switched on his lamp, catching a glance at the clock. It was almost three o'clock in the morning. How had he slept that long? The last time he was awake had been four o'clock in the afternoon. Sherlock, now resting half propped against his headboard, pondered the question while continually trying to calm himself. Moriarty _was_ dead. Richard Brook _didn't_ exist. It was all a dream, a horrible, sick, twisted power-play of his imagination.

Sherlock's stomach growled loudly, alerting him that he was hungry. He thought about waiting till morning but the ramifications were too great. It would mean having to eat with John, which would be awkward more than anything, and he wasn't sure he could wait that long. So, decision made, Sherlock climbed out of bed slowly (realizing he needed more medicine) and walked into the darkened kitchen.

Sherlock switched the light on and, with no attempt to be quiet, he pulled out some bread from the bread drawer and retrieved the peanut butter from the pantry. He slapped together a sandwich haphazardly and poured himself a large cup of milk. A simple meal, perhaps, but it was quick and satisfying.

Sherlock, feeling worn out by his meal preparation, took the half-eaten sandwich and glass of milk back into his bedroom, where he stretched out over the bed clothes. He finished his midnight snack (although if he was feeling better, Sherlock would have pointed out it was closer to breakfast than midnight) and continued lying about, staring at the ceiling. He was trying to find it in him to get up and get more paracetamol but his legs and arms felt like they were bound to the bed. So Sherlock laid there, too sore to even reach over and turn off the light.

* * *

Sherlock's jolted awake suddenly at the noise coming from the kitchen. John. What was John doing? Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he listened. Getting a pan, lighting the stove, cracking an egg. He must be making an omelette. Yes, there was the knife on the cutting board, chopping … was it green onion or tomato? Tomato. Sherlock allowed his head to rotate slightly to the right to glimpse the clock. Four hours had past since he had gotten up for food, making it just after seven o'clock in the morning. Sherlock lay perfectly still and gauged how he felt.

The most curious thing Sherlock noted was that he seemed to be covered in a thin film of sweat. His hair was sticking damply to his forehead and he could feel his nightshirt crumpled uncomfortably in the small of his back. The next thing Sherlock found odd was the sudden urge in his chest to cough. Putting a hand to his mouth, Sherlock gave a deep, throaty cough that brought up off-coloured mucus. Sherlock crinkled his nose, reaching for a tissue. The cough had hurt his chest and made his sinuses feel like they were going to explode. Sherlock flexed his toes, a satisfying crack filling the silence, and realized his leg muscles were very stiff. Having fallen asleep half sitting up, Sherlock imagined that his neck was going to be mighty sore as well. Slowly sitting up, Sherlock could swear he felt each vertebrate in his spine snapping back into place as he straightened but that wasn't the worst of it. The moment Sherlock's head was unsupported, the room began to spin in a way that reminded Sherlock of being drugged by Irene. It was the most horrible feeling that spread from his head down to his stomach and despite the sore neck and back, Sherlock let himself fall back on the headboard quiet quickly. It took a moment for his stomach to calm and his eyes to regain focus but Sherlock was relieved he did not vomit all over the floor. He wondered if he was hungry but the very thought of food made the nauseated feeling return and Sherlock quickly took his phone from the nightstand to distract his mind. Pulling up a search engine, Sherlock listed all his discomforts in a symptom checker and was not at all surprised when it concluded he was suffering from a rather nasty bout of flu, given the extent of his symptoms.

Sherlock let his phone fall to the bed and he groaned. Not only was he miserable, but Sherlock felt trapped in his room. There was absolutely no way he was going to risk bumping into John in this condition. John, despite his anger towards Sherlock, would coddle him and that would be almost as bad as the cold shoulder. Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping with all his heart that John had plans to go out for the day. If John was gone, Sherlock had access to the kitchen and the bathroom without the risk of running into his flatmate.

* * *

Sherlock was in luck. John left the flat about twenty minutes later, and though Sherlock didn't have the faintest clue where he was going, he was grateful when he heard the front door slam shut against the cold wind. Sherlock had been trying, rather unsuccessfully, to will away the nausea. The moment the door closed, Sherlock threw his legs over the side of the bed, and while the room was swaying, he used the wall to guide himself to the bathroom, where he leaned over the toilet and vomited violently. By the time his bout had passed, Sherlock had collapsed to the floor and sweat was pouring off him. He leaned back against the edge of the bathtub and took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. It didn't take very long for him to be doubled over the toilet again.

Sherlock's morning very quickly became very miserable. Unable to leave the bathroom for even the slightest of moments, Sherlock ended up pulling some towels from the small linen cupboard and laid them on the floor and wrapped himself in them as he lay shivering between bouts. At this point, he would have rather been dead. Sherlock lost all concept of time but after what he guessed to be about five minutes without throwing up, Sherlock slowly slid across the floor to the cabinet under the sink. He took out every bottle that looked like it could contain medicine and began reading labels, although difficult to do with dizziness. He blinked his eyes hard and ordered them to focus but they often refused to comply. Sherlock hated not having control over his own body but at last found something that said it would stop nausea and vomiting. Unscrewing the bottle, Sherlock gagged at the vile smell but poured the correct amount – or what he guessed to be the correct amount – into the cap and gulped it down. Not daring to leave the bathroom yet, Sherlock sat there in silence, eyes closed. His head began nodding dangerously and he jolted awake when it actually fell to his chest. Deciding it was safe to return to his bedroom, Sherlock attempted to rise. Using the sink to support himself heavily, he got a good look at himself in the mirror. His face was ghastly pale and looked like he had dropped five pounds overnight. His eyes were dark but glassy, like starring into deep oceanic waters at night. His hair was drenched with sweat, the tendrils falling across his forehead. As an afterthought, Sherlock fell back to the ground and groped around under the sink for the thermometer. Switching it on, he inserted it in his mouth and waited for the beep to tell him his temperature was as high as he expected – almost to 103 degrees.

While the thought of crawling back into bed was tempting, Sherlock decided it would help him feel better to take a nice, hot shower. With great difficulty, Sherlock managed to shower, move the medicines (and thermometer) into his bedroom, and fall into bed, freshly washed and in clean night clothes, without doing too much damage. His stomach had, thankfully, stopped revolting and Sherlock had filled a glass with lukewarm water, which he vowed to drink before afternoon came. As an added precaution, a plastic lined bin was brought to his room and placed next to the bed. Exhausted, tired, sore, and sick, Sherlock finally closed his eyes and fell into a deep, albeit restless, sleep.

**I feel so evil … but wetrustno1 (for whom this is being written) said I could torture Sherlock all I wanted. But still. I feel bad for the guy. **

**I'm curious to see what you have to say about this chapter, as it is vastly different from the first! Sadly, with it being Monday tomorrow, another update won't come until Thursday, at the earliest. Reviews are always welcome! **


	3. Falling

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Wow … hello, everybody! As always, thank you so much for your interest in the story. I'm simply blown away by your response and rest assured that a) every single review/fave/alert made me smile and b) if I had more time, I'd thank every one of you personally. However, as you may have noticed, I am a tad busy and don't have time for many updates/e-mails at the moment. But, as it is Friday, here is a chapter for you to enjoy =) **

Sherlock woke to the slamming of the front door and the first thing he did was squint his eyes shut, the streaking pain in his head forcing him to lie completely still. Each footstep made a pounding noise that lessened slightly when John got to the top of the stair-case. Sherlock didn't dare move, sensing that any sudden motion would send more pain rocketing through his skull and quite possibly make him vomit. He took a few deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth – before daring to allow his head to turn ever so slightly to see the clock. How was it only 11:15? Hadn't he spent a better part of the morning suffering in the bathroom? That felt like it should have been days ago, not merely two hours.

Sherlock decided it was safe to try and sit up a little ways but he immediately regretted this decision. Although he was now somewhat upright (which, he had to admit, made it easier to breathe), leaning against the pillow for support, he felt the urge to lean over and take the bin in his hands. He wondered why he hadn't thought to leave it on the nightstand as the change in pressure made his sinuses ache mercilessly. Sherlock held his head over it, expecting at any moment something to come from his stomach but all he managed were dry heaves.

Looking over, Sherlock saw his glass of water sitting there, shimmering in the light he had failed to turn off. Putting the bin beside him, Sherlock, trying to move as little as possible, stretched out a long arm and grasped it in his hands. He shakily lifted the rim to his lips and slowly, methodically, drank more than half of it. Sherlock felt the cool liquid run down his raw throat and into his empty, aching stomach. He closed his eyes, willing it to stay down. Satisfied, he moved to put the glass back, noticing that there were condensation marks on the outside of the cup from where his hands had been. Sherlock, his head beginning to spin slightly, took the thermometer from the night stand before shifting down slightly in his bed. He put the thermometer in his mouth and waited, rather dreading the result. He knew he was running a high fever but he didn't know what else to do for it besides take some more paracetamol. The thermometer beeped and Sherlock squinted at the tiny numbers – still around 103 – and put it next to the glass of water. After that, Sherlock slipped into a sort of trance as the hour wore on. He wasn't sleeping, per se, but he wasn't what one might call conscious of his surroundings. He could hear John moving around in the apartment – making something to eat, typing an e-mail (much longer than a blog post. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock wondered if he had a new girlfriend), making a cup of tea, sitting down in his chair (there was a slight squeak developing in the underside of the cushion that required a squirt or two of some lubricant), taking a shower, and finally, going upstairs. Sherlock could tell that he did indeed have a new girlfriend and John was taking her somewhere formal tonight. Sherlock heard the zipper of a garment bag, the methodical brushing on of shoe polish (John had been, and still was very much, military), and the chipper sound the dress shoes made on the floor. Sherlock winced as John dropped something heavy on the floor above him, the sudden noise creating a sporadic pain behind his right ear. Sherlock heard John come down the stairs, take his keys and wallet, and leave again.

Amidst analyzing John's actions and movements, Sherlock kept finding his mind wandering to the most random places – the time he had spent with Molly immediately after the fall.

"Sherlock, are you ready to go?" she had asked as they were getting to leave in the middle of the night. In his state, her voice was loud but gentile. There was a sense of compassion and care. What he wouldn't do to have Molly looking out for him right now.

As Molly slipped away, his mind flashed to seeing John and Mrs. Hudson at the cemetery. The pain he could feel as he watched John beg him to be alive and the kind thoughts he had towards Mrs. Hudson for sending his things to a school. For a moment his heart started racing as he found himself out on the moor in Baskervilles. The glowing red eyes haunted Sherlock and his own eyes snapped open. When that had happened, the calming sound of John's stocking feet above him reminded him he was safe. Of course, Sherlock's mind drifted to Irene. He had enjoyed his trip to save her, and relished the fact that no one knew he did it. Secrets like that were always the best to keep, especially when you get to watch someone lie to convince you otherwise.

After what felt like hours, Sherlock finally managed to fall into a dreamless sleep that was interrupted by a deep cough. Forcing himself up to be able to breathe, Sherlock felt quite disoriented but it didn't matter. Something told him that his nausea medicine had worn off and this cough was very quickly going to turn into a gag.

Staggering blindly into the bathroom, Sherlock fumbled for the light switch and when he couldn't find it, trusted his sense of direction to get him where he needed to be. It was his bathroom, after all. He should know where the toilet is. After vomiting violently, Sherlock, shivering, crawled over to the bathroom door and reached up for the light switch before wasting no time in swallowing two more nausea pills. He waited for them to work, willing himself not to vomit them up, and tried to clear his head.

He needed to eat. He needed to drink. He needed sleep. He needed to get his fever down. The last one, Sherlock realized, was something he could do in the bathroom. Not wanting to stand and support himself, Sherlock, who had been supporting himself against the bathtub, leaned around and turned the cold water on. He splashed some onto his face, feeling its cooling effects, and continued to do so until he started to feel more awake and alert. Sherlock turned the tap off and attempted to stand up, deciding he should dare to find some crackers. Again, he was forced to use the wall for support, but Sherlock managed to make it to the kitchen, where he found a package of soda crackers in a cupboard. He smelled them and when he saw they didn't have anything growing on them, he decided they were safe to eat. He nibbled on a few and then decided to take them back to his bedroom, giving them the status of a work in progress.

Back in his room, Sherlock laid out on the bed, on top of the bedclothes. While grateful to be done vomiting, Sherlock missed the cooling relief of the tap water on his face. He laid out, arms and legs extended, feeling the sweat beading on his back and face. It was the most disgusting feeling, made worse by the fact that there was nothing else he could do. Given that he had just taken more nausea pills, Sherlock didn't want to risk taking more paracetamol. The only thing he could do was sweat it out.

**I know it's a little short but there's only one chapter left (I think … that's the plan, at least!) which will be quite a bit longer. I'm sorry if this chapter was too similar to the last one – I needed to torture Sherlock just a little bit more *insert evil laugh*. Oh, and for the record, I'm not a Sherlock/Molly shipper … I think they're cute friends but I'm not sure I'd want to see them as more than that. **

**Anyways. Enough blabbering. Reviews are always appreciated! **


	4. Catching

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Once again, dear readers, you have flattered and amazed me. I'm so touched by the amount of reviews and reads this story is getting. I don't know what's different about this one but for some reason, it's gotten a lot of attention. Oh well … definitely not complaining! I hope you enjoy the next chapter … I was rather inspired to write it as, in some weird twist of fate, I am now sick. No where near as sick as Sherlock, but still sick enough that I figured a good chapter of caring John would make me feel better. Enjoy! **

John unlocked the front door as quickly as his frozen hands could allow him. It was late – very late – and he was returning from a dinner show he had gone to with Harry. Since Sherlock had died – and recently risen – Harry had made a special effort to become closer to her brother. They met at least once a week now over tea and often went out in the evenings to events – some formal, like tonight, but some as casual as watching a DVD together.

John climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson. He found the flat completely dark and he groped around for the lamp switch in the landing way. The pale light illuminated his path to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge, his stomach growling noisily. He pulled out a plate of left-over meatloaf that Mrs. Hudson had brought up and warmed it in the microwave. He sat down to eat at the kitchen table but a few bites in, John became aware of a very particular odour coming from the hallway. It was strong enough to make John loose his appetite and sighing, he threw his napkin on the table and rose to go clean up whatever mess was causing such an awful smell. Normally, he didn't mind whatever Sherlock was working on but this experiment had gone too far. John didn't care how much it had cost Sherlock, how long he had been working on, or if someone's alibi depended on it, he was getting rid of it. John switched on the light in the bathroom – the stench had led him there – and looked around. Sherlock had definitely been there. The bathroom cabinet was wide open, obviously dug through, and there were towels strewn all over the floor. However, John could not tell where the smell was coming from. It was strong but there was nothing in the bathroom to cause it. Turning the light off, John sighed, knowing the next step would be to check Sherlock's room. He didn't care that he wasn't speaking to his friend (John couldn't deny the fact that Sherlock was still his best friend), the cause of the odour had to go tonight. There was a pale light shining out from under Sherlock's door and John knocked once, and then when no one answered, twice. Finally, he turned the knob and slowly opened the door, as if expecting something to jump out and grab him.

John couldn't believe what he saw. He had found the source of the odour all right, as well as something that made his heart beat a little faster. Sherlock was still lying on top of his bed, pale and breathing shallowly, but was covered in his own sick. John walked over to the bed, noting the bin next to him. Obviously Sherlock had missed.

"Sherlock?" John asked, leaning over. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Mhmm." Sherlock mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"I'm sick." Sherlock slurred, still not opening his eyes.

"Obviously." John's tone was almost exactly the same as the tone Sherlock used when he stated the obvious. John laid a hand on Sherlock brown.

"How long have you been ill?" John asked in concern.

"Couple days."

"Why didn't you say anything?" John's question seemed understandable but Sherlock didn't respond. John knew the answer – he didn't want to be the one to break the awful silence (he was after all, Mr. Punch Line). John cleared his throat.

"Okay, well, we're going to get you taken care of and you'll be better in no time."

Sherlock had slipped into a state of semi-unconsciousness and didn't answer. John's medical instincts were coming back to him. The first thing he had to do was get Sherlock cleaned up. Given the fact that he was rather unable to move, John decided that a sponge bath, fresh clothing, and clean sheets would have to do until Sherlock was able to walk to the bathroom and take a full shower. Fetching a bowl of hot, soapy water and a cloth, John took off Sherlock's shirt and began bathing him.

If asked before hand, John would have probably said he'd feel quite self-conscious caring for Sherlock in this way but strangely, he did not. Yes, he cared about him as a friend but right now, Sherlock was a patient and John treated him with the same respect and dignity he treated all his patients with. John finished bathing Sherlock and put the bowl aside. It took him a little longer to remember how to change a bed with a patient in it – he had learned how to in med school but it was normally a nursing staff job, so he had never done since his training – but soon enough, Sherlock was tucked into a freshly made bed in clean pyjamas. John, realizing he couldn't start a load of washing in the middle of the night, filled the bathtub with cold water for the soiled linens, plus all the towels from the bathroom floor, to soak for awhile before going back into Sherlock's room. He laid his hand on Sherlock's forehead again and frowned. It was very warm and John reached for the thermometer. He held it under Sherlock's tongue till it beeped and then looked at it – 104 even.

"Sherlock?" John said, shaking the strong man's shoulder to rouse him.

"Sherlock, I know you're tired but I need to ask you a few questions."

Sherlock's eyes opened slightly and they were very dark and glassy, polka dots on a pale face.

"How long have you had a temperature?"

"'Bout a day." Not too bad, meant he hasn't been ill for more than two days.

"When was the last time you checked? You had the thermometer in your room."

"Don't remember."

"Do you remember how high it was?"

"103." It's gone up since then. Not a good sign.

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"Paracetamol and the anti-vomiting stuff under the bathroom counter." At least he had the sense to take something, although John was a little annoyed at himself for leaving that stuff out in the open. Normally, he didn't have to worry about Sherlock taking drugs because he always caught the first signs of any illness Sherlock may come down with.

"When was the last time you took some?"

"After you left." Hours ago.

"Have you eaten today?"

"Some crackers." Better than nothing.

"What about liquids? Have you been drinking?"

"Trying to." Again, better than nothing.

"Can your stomach hold anything?" No answer. "Please, Sherlock, this is the last question and then I'll stop."

Sherlock forced his eyes open again.

"No. I've thrown up everything I've ingested in the past two days."

Sherlock's eyes slid closed and John kept his promise, not asking any more questions. The first thing, John decided, was to get some medicine into Sherlock to get that fever down. Picking up the bottle of paracetamol, he counted out the strongest possible dose, figuring any that Sherlock had taken had been thrown up. He helped Sherlock sit up enough to swallow the pills and then tucked the blankets in around him. Another check of the brow made John retrieve a compress from the bathroom and lay it across Sherlock's forehead.

His patient settled, John trekked upstairs and threw on a pair of sweat pants, finally glad to be out of his suit. He ventured into the kitchen, discarding the meatloaf and instead, pouring some crisps into a bowl and taking them, along with a cup of tea, into Sherlock's room. Pulling a chair in from the living room (he expected to be here all night; it was worth moving an arm chair instead of a smaller, but uncomfortable, kitchen chair), he sat down to watch over his friend.

**Well, I'll have you know that writing that made me feel better (not physically, sadly, but mentally it made me peachy!). What do you think? With only one more chapter to go, reviews always appreciated =) **


	5. Faith

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, everyone! Happy Thanksgiving (well, sort of. On Monday.)! I hope that you all find something to be thankful for, regardless if it's a holiday for you. I want to thank all of YOU for the overwhelming support you've given to this story. I cannot believe how many people have read it and liked it. It blows me away every time. Anyways, here's the final chapter … not sure how I feel about it (rather bittersweet, ending such a good story) but I'll let you be the judge of how good it is. Enjoy! **

John couldn't read. He couldn't page through a magazine. He certainly couldn't type a blog entry. All he could do was sit and watch the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he slept. John had a million things going through his mind.

Mostly he was mad at himself. How could he not realize Sherlock had become this ill? Had he been so selfish that he didn't even pick up on the tell-tale signs – they were always there, especially with Sherlock. He was a doctor; he was supposed to be trained to see these things. But he hadn't.

Of course, he was also mad at Sherlock. What kind of bubble-headed idiot wouldn't ask for help? Sherlock, of course, it was Sherlock who didn't have the common sense to ask John for help when he fell ill. No, it had to be a game and he had to win. There was no way that he would speak up first … but still. John knew that Sherlock hated to be coddled – he never had time for doctoring – and Sherlock had probably figured that if he asked John for help now, it would seem like a cry of pity, a sort of coercion back into John's good graces. John knew perfectly well, as did Sherlock, that it would've worked, too. John had a weak spot for hurting people – that's why he had become a doctor, to help people. By asking for help, Sherlock would have been able to convince John that everything could go back to normal … but he didn't. Why?

John had been pondering that question for hours, having figured out the answer in the first few minutes. Sherlock cared about their friendship and wanted it to be genuine. He had said so, hadn't he? He had told John to take all the time he needed. Sherlock wanted John to be the one to speak up when he felt he could move on. But did Sherlock want their friendship to be so genuine that he put himself through so much to ensure it?

Yes, John realized, he had. Sherlock had suffered by himself – sick and alone and hurting – for heaven knows how long before John found him. The gesture, as stupid as it was, touched John, although now he had the task of caring for the very sick Sherlock.

* * *

The hours ticked by slowly and John grew restless and worried. He watched Sherlock deteriorate as the night moved into early dawn. His sleep became full of restless fits and he often got tangled in the sheets, fighting to free whatever limb was caught up. John could see, as the morning light began to pour into the room, a thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock's face.

Rising from his chair, he instinctually laid a palm on Sherlock's forehead, only to find it burning hot. John worked the thermometer under Sherlock's limp tongue and left to retrieve a fresh washcloth. When he returned, he read the thermometer – 103.5 – before bathing Sherlock's face and neck. John became more worried as Sherlock's temperature continued to rise into the afternoon, peaking at 104.1. Taking ice packs, bags of frozen vegetables, and any other sort of malleable frozen objects into the bedroom, he began packing them around Sherlock's arms and torso, trying in vain to break the fever. The only good thing, John rationalized as he continued his ministrations, was that such a high fever meant Sherlock was never awake to vomit, although it seemed like a pretty grim silver lining. John really wished there was a way he could get some fluids and medicine into Sherlock. He didn't have access to set up a drip, but he could, he decided, try and wake Sherlock to take some medicine and hopefully get some water into him. Fetching a tall glass of cool water, John shook Sherlock's shoulder gently.

"Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes opened with what appeared to be a great amount of strength exerted on Sherlock's part.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're ill, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes slid closed and John shook his shoulder again, prying them open.

"I know you're tired but you've got to take some medicine. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock moved his head just enough to let John know he would try. John slid his hand behind Sherlock's head and lifted it slightly, using his free hand to put two pills into Sherlock's mouth before holding up the glass of water.

"Try to drink as much as you can." he said in a very soothing tone of voice. Sherlock drank most of the water before letting his eyes slide closed again. John laid his head back down.

"That was really good, Sherlock. Very good."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening and John went back to his silent methodical care.

* * *

It was early evening by the time Sherlock woke up again. John had barely left the bedroom the entire day, but it had been worth it when Sherlock's fever had broken and his temperature had fallen to a much more comfortable 99.5 degrees. John had removed the ice and was sitting, once again, in his chair, lost in thought.

Sherlock gave a deep cough, causing John's eyes to travel from the floor to his face. Sherlock's features were crumpled and his coughing fit was becoming more violent, gaining depth. Suddenly, Sherlock was sitting upright looking very urgent. John, luckily, had realized what was about to happen and thrust the bin onto Sherlock's lap just a moment before it was needed. John patted Sherlock's back while he was sick, trying to take the edge off the most-unpleasant experience he believed existed.

"Better?" John asked as Sherlock caught his breath.

"Yes."

John removed the bin and Sherlock fell back against his pillows, eyes wide and alert. John leaned over him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. "Much better."

"Your fever broke about an hour ago."

Sherlock, still breathing hard, nodded.

"Do you think you're going to be sick again?"

"No." Sherlock sounded quite confident but John, being less sure, went and emptied the bin and brought it back, setting it close just in case. He sat back down in his chair, the tension mounting with every passing minute. Finally, it became too much for John.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to look at his friend but the moment they made eye contact, John's eyes fell to his hands.

"Sherlock," he said again. "I don't really know how to say this, but …"

"You don't have to say anything, John. It's okay."

"No, no, it's not." John raised his head. "It's not okay. I know you know how much this hurt me and I know that you're sorry for it. But you have to understand …" John stopped for a moment before continuing. "You have to understand that I trusted you. I feel betrayed by what you did."

"I know."

"I want to move past this, I really do, but how do I know if I can trust you again? How do I know that the next time something happens, you won't just disappear and leave me to pick up the pieces?"

"I can't answer that, John. I can tell you that I am sorry and that while I think it was necessary, I understand that you don't agree. Trust is something you earn, John, and I'm willing to show you that I need you."

It was Sherlock's turn to pause before continuing.

"What you said in the cemetery, about me finding you so alone … well, I was alone then, too. I've never had a friend like you before."

John looked down at his hands. As much as this needed to be said, he couldn't deny it was awkward.

"I forgive you, you know." John said at last. "But it's going to take time before things are like they used to be."

"Nothing can ever be like it used to be. There's no point in recreating a past."

"You're right." John agreed. "But I do have one question for you."

"Anything."

"Why didn't you say something when you first got sick? I would've helped you, you know that, right?"

"Of course I know that." Sherlock answered. "But you have to learn to trust me again, not the other way around. You had to come to me."

"That's fine and all," John said. "But that was a pretty stupid thing to do. You were really sick, Sherlock. If I wasn't a doctor, I would've had you in hospital the moment I found you. What made you so sure that I'd find you before you were half-dead?"

"I wasn't going to die from this, John. It's a simple case of flu."

"Your temperature was at 104, Sherlock. Any higher and you could've had brain damage. So how did you know that I'd find you?"

"I knew that eventually you'd see the signs and once you found me, you wouldn't just leave me, especially if I was as ill as you said."

"You really trusted me, then?"

John watched and there was no trace of hesitation in Sherlock's voice.

"With my life."

**And … how'd I do? **

**Also, before my closing note, two points of business.**

**1) Thank you so much for all your well-wishes. Still rather sick, but slowly getting there … colds just take forever to go away and it's annoying. **

**2) I had the pleasure of doing this story upon request … if you have any story ideas that you'd like to see done, let me know! I'm always up for a good challenge (in case you haven't noticed, I don't do slash of any kind. Also, I prefer sick fics but I'm willing to tackle new projects =) ) **

**And that, my dear friends, is the end. Thank you so, so much for reading _It's My Turn to Believe_. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it! **

**~StoryLover18 **


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